The Shadow Reader ml-1

by Sandy Williams

  YOU’D think the agony stabbing through my right arm would eclipse any discomfort caused by my bed, but there’s a spring or a knife—I’m not entirely sure which—digging into my spine. I’m unwilling to shift away from it. My arm might be splinted and wrapped in strips of cloth, but the slightest movement sends me careening toward the edge of consciousness. I don’t want to fall asleep again. I can’t stand the loneliness that descended at the end of my dream.

  Hours pass. My muscles stiffen and I grow bored of staring at the ceiling. The cracks zigzagging through it make me frown. I shouldn’t be able to see them, not with the door closed and the window boarded up. Slowly, I turn my head to the right and find the source of the room’s light: an upside-down mason jar sitting on the floor. Bright swirls of white and blue mists battle for dominance within the glass confines. That’s how the fae light their world after dark. Of course, they don’t usually use mason jars. The Realm’s glassmakers make lamps, wall sconces, and hanging orbs that the fae can light with a touch of their magic. That’s all fine and good if you’re fae. If you’re human, not so much.

  I experiment with lifting my head a few times. When that’s tolerable, I bend my knees until my feet rest on the mattress. This puts more of my weight on my spine, though, so I finally try to scooch ever so slightly to the side.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as pain shoots down my arm. God, running was a bad idea. What made me think I could escape? The fae outnumber me. They’re faster and more familiar with the terrain. Even if they didn’t have magic, I’d have little hope of slipping away.

  The throbbing in my arm slowly fades. I think I’ll feel better if I sit up, so this time, I go all in. I hold my breath, spin my feet toward the side of the bed, and use my good arm to push up.

  Nausea grips me as the room spins. I focus on breathing. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as a chill creeps into my bones. Panic’s edging in on me, making my chest ache, my throat burn. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be involved in this war. I was going to get out of it. If the rebels had waited just three days, I would have graduated and retired from the Court. Aren’s shadow-witch would have faded to a myth and I’d be safe. Safe and unhurt.

  I swallow back my emotions and force myself to deal with the pain radiating up my forearm. After a few minutes of deep breathing, the room settles.

  Okay. So the escape attempt didn’t work. I can’t give up. I’ll just have to plan my next move better. I’ll have to—

  The door clicks. It opens inward and Kelia enters. She’s carrying a waterskin and a second magically lit mason jar. When she sees I’m awake, she crosses the room to stand in front of me.

  “That was a stupid thing you did.”

  “Yep,” I manage, though my voice sounds strained.

  “You’re lucky Aren was adamant about you being kept alive.”

  Lucky? Lucky would have been me escaping. Or me not being captured in the first place.

  Kelia pauses, cocks her head to the side. “How’s your arm?” “Feels great.”

  She mutters some Fae word I haven’t learned yet and then reaches into her pocket. “Hold out your hand.”

  Lifting my good arm takes a hell of a lot of effort. The tendons in my shoulder are tight and I feel weak, like I’ve swum for hours in a pool and now have to bear my full weight again. Kelia drops two pills onto my open palm. Even they feel heavy.

  “I don’t think ibuprofen’s going to help,” I tell her.

  “These are a bit stronger than that.”

  My gaze returns to her and I lift an eyebrow. “Robbing pharmacies now, are you?”

  “A few pills won’t be missed,” she says dismissively.

  I pop them into my mouth and Kelia hands me her waterskin. When I nearly drop it, she helps me tip it back. I swallow the pills, not really caring what they are so long as they ease the pain in my arm.

  “Thank you,” I say when she takes the skin away.

  “If you’re thankful, don’t try to escape again.”

  I snort. “Sure. No problem.”

  Her eyes narrow as she leans forward to set her mason jar down, but her glare lacks real scorn. I think we’re both trying to hate each other. And we’re both failing.

  The creak of the door opening draws both our attentions. I hear Kelia suck in a breath and then she’s suddenly across the room and in the newcomer’s arms.

  “Naito!” she cries out.

  I blink a few times. I try not to let my mouth hang open, but she’s kissing the guy and despite the sound of his name, he’s not fae.

  Kelia takes a tiny step back, but keeps her hands on the man’s chest, touching him like he might not be real. Now that they’re not lip-locked, I note his disheveled black hair and the sharp planes of his face. He’s at least half Asian, but 100 percent human.

  Kelia kisses him again, longer, more deeply this time, and a chaos luster flickers from her face to his, shimmying down his neck to disappear under the bloodstained collar of his shirt.

  “What happened?” she asks. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay,” Naito says. “The blood’s not mine.”

  She falls into his arms again. He holds her tight, but his eyes are locked on me. I’m too stunned to look away. He’s human, she’s fae, and I can’t help but wonder what would happen if Kyol joined the rebellion. Could we be together then? I want him more than anything, but I’ve never asked him to abandon the Court. Would he if I asked?

  Guilt spikes through my chest. I’ve no right to ask that. No right at all.

  Naito eases Kelia back a half step, then runs his hands down her arms. When he reaches her wrists, he stops, scowls, and drops his gaze to the watch I let her borrow.

  “What the hell is this?” he demands.

  She hops back like she’s been stung. Her right hand darts to cover her left wrist. “It’s nothing.”

  “We’ve been over this,” he says. At least, I think that’s what he says. Apparently, I’m not the only human the rebels have taught to speak Fae. He continues scolding her, but his words come too quickly now for me to follow. Kelia’s lip twists into a pout, but she lets him unlatch the watch from her wrist.

  He crosses the room and holds it out to me. “Yours, I presume.”

  I nod, still a bit dumbfounded.

  He tosses the watch onto my bed. “Don’t give that to her again. That or any other tech.”

  I don’t know whether to be annoyed for Kelia’s sake at his overprotectiveness or to find it endearing. Honestly, she shouldn’t have touched my watch, let alone wear it. A pale circlet of blue shades her wrist as if her skin’s been bruised, though the coloring is too phosphorescent for that. Most likely, such a simple piece of tech won’t do lasting damage to her magic.

  Naito’s still watching me. I think he’s waiting for a response until he says, “So. You’re Aren’s shadow-witch.”

  I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “I’m not Aren’s anything.”

  “Sure.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I heard you’re better than the rumors.”

  “I’m better than you.” When the words slip out, I suppress a grimace. I shouldn’t have said that, even if it’s undoubtedly true.

  “What makes you think I read the shadows?”

  “Why else would you be here?” I can’t help but look at Kelia when she steps to his side.

  “Maybe I just have the Sight,” he says, intertwining his fingers with hers.

  “Maybe.” I’m not jealous of the two of them. I’m not.

  Kelia’s hand tightens around his as she peers up at him. “What happened?”

  His smile fades and he looks suddenly weary. “The Court’s arresting fae who sympathize with us, hoping they’ll have information on her.” He nods toward me. “The people they took didn’t know anything, but Aren stepped in anyway. We freed most of them. Almost captured another one of Atroth’s shadow-readers, but the sword-master showed up.” His gaze settles on me. “The son of Taltrayn isn’t happy he lost you. He’s
personally leading the attacks against our people.”

  “Your people?”

  “I’m as much a part of the rebellion as you’re a part of the Court,” he says, pausing to study me. “But I think my people might respect and include me more than yours respect and include you.”

  “I get plenty of respect.”

  “But they don’t include you, do they? Don’t tell you their plans or the consequences of what you do for them. They’ve even forbidden you to speak their language.”

  I raise my chin, trying to appear confident. It’s not an easy thing to do with a broken arm and bruised body, but his criticism gets my hackles up. “They’ve never locked me in a room and threatened my life.”

  “Just because you don’t know you’re a prisoner doesn’t mean you aren’t one.”

  “And your injuries are your fault,” Kelia tosses in.

  I throw her a quick glare before returning my attention to Naito. “The Court takes care of me. It takes care of the Realm. It doesn’t burn families to death behind silver-painted walls.”

  Naito’s nostrils flare at the reference to Brykeld, but he doesn’t say anything, so I press on. “It doesn’t hide in the homes of innocent fae or starve people to try to get its way.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Starve people?”

  “That’s what happens when you attack the gates. You’re disrupting commerce. Merchants are afraid to travel because of you.”

  “You think we’re starving people?” He throws back his head and laughs. “You believe everything the Court tells you, don’t you?”

  Oh, big mistake, buddy. Nothing sets me off like a condescending laugh. Not that I can do anything about it but simmer from my roost on my bed, but I’ll be damned if I ever help these people. Aren is responsible for the massacre at Brykeld, and I’ve seen the consequences of the rebels’ other actions. Their sporadic attacks on the gates have forced merchants to hire guards or journey solely by road to reach their destinations. The cost of that is passed on to the rest of the Realm, and not all the fae can pay the higher prices. Those who can’t, go days, sometimes weeks, without food.

  “We’re not the reason people are going hungry,” Naito says when his laughter subsides. “People are going hungry because of Atroth and his taxes.”

  “Taxes he has to charge to protect his people from Aren,” I retort. “False-bloods have always hurt the Realm. Your leader’s no exception.”

  “Aren’s not a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe. Sethan is.”

  “Look,” I say. “The lords of the provinces voted for King Atroth. He is a Descendant—nobody disputes that—so unless you have some aversion to democracy, he’s the rightful king.”

  His expression darkens. “This isn’t America—”

  “No, it’s Germany,” I interrupt, suddenly tired and more than a little cranky. “ And if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

  He shakes his head. “Aren should have killed you.”

  So much for getting sympathy from my fellow human. The rebels have completely brainwashed this guy.

  He says something in Fae to Kelia. She responds, but I’m suddenly too distracted to decipher their words. Aren glowers in the doorway. Edarratae flash across a tensed jaw, briefly erasing the shadows on his face. They don’t lighten his mood, though. I can feel him seething from across the room. He strides forward, his hand strangling the hilt of the sword at his waist. He’s holding himself back. Barely.

  “Leave,” he barks. He’s staring at me, but it’s clear he’s talking to Naito and Kelia. I want to beg them both to stay, but Naito takes Kelia’s arm. They’re walking out of the room already, leaving the door open by only a tiny crack.

  Okay. Stay calm. There has to be something I can do or say to get out of whatever he plans to do to me. Should I apologize for trying to escape? Offer to read shadows for him? That’s why he’s kept me alive so far, for that and my knowledge of the Missing Gates, but giving in seems shameful. Kyol wouldn’t give in. He’d resist as long as possible, then . . .

  Aren pulls a knife from his belt.

  . . . or maybe he’d think me a fool for not doing whatever it takes to stay alive.

  I open my mouth to make an offer that might buy me more time, but my words catch in my throat. Pain strikes through the right side of my rib cage when I cough, trying to clear an airway suddenly constricted with fear. Aren crouches down in front of me, silver eyes locked on mine.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” Despite his low growl, he’s gentle when he slides the knife’s blade through the bandages wrapping my fractured arm. I suck in a breath when the splint and strips of cloth fall to the floor. It hurts, but not as much as it would if I hadn’t taken Kelia’s pills.

  Carefully, Aren wraps both his hands around the break and awakens his magic. I grit my teeth to hold back a scream. Fire. That’s what his touch feels like. Hot, molten fire. If I weren’t staring at my arm, I’d swear my flesh was turning black and crisp beneath his fingers.

  When the agony increases, my left hand darts out to grip Aren’s shoulder. I dig my nails into his muscle, squeeze my eyes shut. Instinct begs me to shove him away, but I’ve been through this before. King Atroth has three healers in his Court, and I almost died that first year I read the shadows, trying to track down the false-blood Thrain.

  The pain vanishes. Oh, yes, the arm still aches, but the fire’s gone and I’m able to breathe again.

  Aren’s hands are still on me, though. I can’t help but notice his knuckles are swollen and dirty, the skin over them broken. Blood, sweat, and dirt invade a deep gash running from his wrist to his elbow. He needs to take care of that. Before it becomes infected.

  He finally releases my arm, and then lays his hand on top of mine, which still clings to his shoulder. I loosen my grip and pull back, my fingers sliding out from under his.

  I swallow once, twice, then find my voice. “Why not?”

  An edarratae flashes across his jaw. “Why not what?”

  “Why aren’t you going to hurt me?”

  His eyes meet mine, linger a beat too long, before he looks away. “Lena’s already done that.”

  “You didn’t do anything when I climbed out the window, either,” I point out.

  He sits beside me on the bed. “You want me to hurt you?”

  “No.” I drop my eyes to my injured arm in time to see a pair of blue lightning bolts flash across my skin where the break had been. That’s freaky. Aren’s no longer touching me. The chaos lusters shouldn’t still be there. I rub my hand over my arm as if I can wipe them away.

  “I’ve left the amajur, the magic, in you,” he says. “It’s still working to mend the fracture. It’ll fade in a few minutes. Where else are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” I don’t remember the magic of the king’s healers doing that, but then, I was only half-conscious at the time.

  “Where else are you hurt?” Aren demands more forcefully this time.

  I hesitate, then say, “My ribs and back.”

  His gaze travels down to my shirt. Uh-uh. No way am I taking it off. When he moves toward me, I grab the front hem, holding it down tight. He pauses, then leans behind me to lift the back of the material.

  “You may keep your shirt on.”

  “Thanks,” I snap, but I let my shirt rise enough for him to slide the back up to my shoulders. His fingers skate lightly down my ribs and then slowly back up, inspecting my injuries. He does the same to my left side even though I’m not hurt there, and I shiver under his touch.

  “Not fractured,” he says. “This won’t hurt like mending bone.” He presses his palm against the worst of my bruises and the heat of his magic seeps into me. A blue glow fans out just above my hip and a luster flickers across my bare stomach. No, it doesn’t hurt. It tingles in an unpleasantly pleasant way.

  Behind me, Aren breathes deeply. He leans forward. When I feel his breath hot on the back of my neck, I stiffen. I’m a girl, he’s a guy, and we’re alone in this room. He’s
ten times stronger than I am. He can do whatever he wants and even if I scream, it’s unlikely anyone will come to my rescue.

  “You’re still afraid of me.”

  My heart thuds in my chest. I don’t dare look at him. “Shouldn’t I be?”

  He takes a long time to respond and when he does, I get the impression he’s choosing his words carefully. “You can’t help us if you’re dead. You won’t want to help us if you’re hurt. Lena and the others don’t understand that.” He moves away.

  I smooth down my shirt. “You seem more angry at them than me.”

  “Because they know . . .” He stops. “I expected you to try to escape.”

  “You did?”

  He nods, and the glimmer of a smile appears on his lips. “Why do you think I left so many fae to guard you?”

  I shrug—and am relieved when the motion doesn’t hurt. “You’re afraid the sword-master will find me.”

  “Ah, yes. The sword-master. I think you would be dismayed to learn the things he’s doing to get you back.”

  Unease churns in my stomach, but I don’t move, not until Aren’s laugh startles me.

  “You won’t even ask what he’s done? Too afraid to learn something you won’t like?”

  My glare does nothing to erase the teasing glint in his eyes. His previous melancholy is gone, the burden lifted from his shoulders, and he’s once again the mirth-filled kidnapper who held me dangling three stories above a concrete pavement.

  “Aren?” A fae peeks in from the doorway. He mentions Sethan’s name along with a string of other words I recognize, but I can’t make sense of their order or meaning. Aren responds as he rises off the bed, then he smiles down at me.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asks.

  He expects me to be grateful, to feel like I owe him. “I was coping before.”